“What do you mean?”
“He wants me to talk about my childhood trauma. But I can’t…because it requires me talking about that.”
A shaky breath leaves me. “Oh.”
His voice drops. “I can’t do it, Kit. You’re the only person I’ll talk about that with.”
My chest feels like it’s going to cave in. “Preston—”
“I told him that and he suggested you come up here and join us for my next therapy session.” His breath is a soft rasp in my ear. “I said I wasn’t sure if you would agree because we’re…in a bad place right now. His response was that I needed to try and ask anyway, because between me not talking to him or participating in any of the other bullshit things they want me to do, the team doesn’t think I’m a good fit for the program. They’re all douchebags.”
They might have a point. But not because they’re douchebags.
Because Preston refuses to open up and take therapy seriously.
It’s the worst outcome I could have hoped for.
But he needs me.
“When’s your next therapy session?”
“Tomorrow at three.”
“I’ll be there.”
With that, I hang up.
Chapter 64
Kit
I’m nervous as I walk through the doors of the rehab center. Although to be honest, it looks more like a resort.
Asher said this place was recommended to him by a teammate he trusts.
It’s obvious said teammate is loaded.
Not that Preston seems to be enjoying the beautiful surroundings.
After a woman escorts me to a large dining room, I find him sitting at the table.
His hair is a little longer and the stubble on his face looks to be about three days old…but he’s still as gorgeous as I remember.
Aside from looking completely miserable.
However, he perks up a little when he sees me. “Hey.”
I take a seat across from him at the table, thankful it helps shield my stomach. Not that I have a big belly or anything, but the only person who knows my body as well as I do is Preston. And there are definitely some changes going on that he might notice.
Fortunately, I wore a very baggy T-shirt to cover them up.
“Hey.”
He crosses his arms in a way that makes his biceps stand out even more. “This place sucks.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to be here.”
“I know that, too.”
His eyes sharpen on me and it feels like all the oxygen got sucked out of the room. “I miss you.”
I miss you, too.
I clear the emotion out of my voice. “Where’s your therapist—”
“This must be your wife,” a male voice says behind me.
Standing, I turn and extend my hand. “Hi. I’m Kit.”
He eagerly shakes it. “Hello, I’m Brad. It’s very nice to meet you. I’m so glad you could join us today.”
Despite Preston’s claims that he’s a douchebag, he looks and seems like a friendly nerd. Kind of like an older version of Landon.
He looks at Preston. “Shall we get started?”
Wordlessly, Preston stands.
And then Brad leads us to his office down the hall.
I take a seat on the couch next to Preston, and Brad takes a seat in the big chair across from us.
“So,” he starts. “I’m sure Preston told you that he’s having some difficulty here.”
Beside me, Preston makes a sound of irritation.
“Yes. He’s having trouble opening up.”
“Yes.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “Normally we don’t have spouses come in unless there’s a specific family session scheduled, but I’ve decided to make a special exception in this case, considering the circumstances. The rest of the team wants to discharge him because they don’t think he’s a good fit for the program, but I think if we could get to the crux of his issues, we’d make some real progress together.”
“Eat a dick,” Preston mutters under his breath.
I nudge him with my elbow. “I’m here to help however I can.”
“Good. Familial support is very important.” He picks up a notepad and pen. “Preston, I understand and respect that this is hard for you. However, nothing you say in this room will ever leave my lips. I’m here to help you, not judge you.”
Preston snorts. “Bullshit.”
Brad sighs. “I can’t force you to talk, but I’d really like it if you would just try to give this a chance. I truly believe you’ll make some significant progress once you do.”
I turn to face Preston. “Please try.”
A groove in Preston’s forehead deepens. “I am trying.”
“What was your childhood like?” Brad asks.
Geez Louise. He just gets right into it.
“I already told you,” Preston snaps. “It was shitty. End of story.”
This isn’t him trying. This is him locking the door to his trauma and throwing away the key because it makes him uncomfortable.
“Look at me.” When he does, I take his hand. “You trust me, right?”
He nods.
I squeeze it a little tighter, because I’ve got him. “Then trust me when I tell you you’re not in this alone. I am right here with you.” I hold his gaze. “Stay with me.”
“What was your childhood like?” the therapist asks again.
Preston’s eyes don’t leave mine. “Horrible.”
“Why was that?”
His jaw tics. “Because my father beat the shit out of me sometimes.”
“I’m sorry that happened, Preston. No one deserves that.” I hear Brad scribbling something on a pad. “Abuse—especially childhood abuse—has a way of staying with us well into adulthood. It shapes us and makes us less trusting of others. But it’s important to know that you did nothing to deserve the abuse.”
Preston closes his eyes. “I moved the coffee table.”
The therapist looks at me. “I don’t—”
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “You can tell him what happened.” I squeeze his hand tighter. “I’m right here with you.”
And I’m never leaving.
Eyes squeezed shut and clutching my hand so tight it hurts, Preston finally speaks. “When I was seven, my father was beating my brother Asher. He was ramming his head into the coffee table. Asher’s eye was getting closer to the corner, so I moved the table out of the way. My father didn’t like that, so later that night he dragged me out of bed so he could punish me.”
Preston stops talking.
“What happened after he dragged you out of bed?” the therapist questions.
“I’m right here.”
Preston swallows. “He slammed the back of my head into the corner of the coffee table repeatedly, even after I started bleeding all over the carpet. He told me he would stop if I apologized for getting involved, but I refused. He was hurting my brother and I wanted to protect him…just like he always protected me…” Preston stops talking again.
“It’s okay,” the therapist says. “Take a few minutes. You can continue whenever you’re ready.”